


I am John Watson's best friend and I have no clue what to get him for Chirstmas

by gameamab (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Christmas, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/gameamab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You could help you know,’ John mumbles, pausing his Christmas themed humming as his Santa hat adorned head peers around the modest plastic tree he insisted on buying without my knowledge or consent until it was outside our door and  any of my arguments were ignored as John heaved the lightly snow-soggy box up the stairs.</p><p>‘It’s plastic John, why did you get a plastic tree?’ I grumble in return, looking up from the laptop in front of me, and ignoring John’s original complaint, ‘it’s not the same.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am John Watson's best friend and I have no clue what to get him for Chirstmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of [Sherlock Secret Santa](http://sherlocksecretsanta.tumblr.com/) for [sherlock-holmess-little-fangirl](http://sherlock-holmess-little-fangirl.tumblr.com/) and I apologize for the terrible and I really hope it isn't because I've spent a month on it so please don't kill me. Unbeta'd as always.
> 
> (Slightly AU because Irene saved them with the phone call at the end of "The Great Game" but then didn't blackmail the government with nudes of Kate.)
> 
> Enjoy and have a Merry Whatever doesn't offend you and a Happy New Year (whenever that is for you respectively) :)

‘You could help you know,’ John mumbles, pausing his Christmas themed humming as his Santa hat adorned head peers around the modest plastic tree he insisted on buying without my knowledge or consent until it was outside our door and any of my arguments were ignored as John heaved the lightly snow-soggy box up the stairs.

‘It’s plastic John, why did you get a plastic tree?’ I grumble in return, looking up from the laptop in front of me, and ignoring John’s original complaint, ‘it’s not the same.’

John steps down from the step ladder, arms crossing over his chest. ‘What is wrong with a plastic tree? It looks the same, it’s easier to store, environmentally friendly and I don’t want a New Years like last year when you spent a month experimenting on the uses of pine needles in various states of freshness. I don’t want my home smelling like a forest.’ 

‘What is wrong with pine smell? You spray that Glen twenty stuff everywhere in the kitchen when I’m working. It invalidates my results.’ I go back to typing, and deciding to ignore any joy that might come out of it because if it’s going to be a plastic, commercial Christmas this year, there will be no joy to find.

‘You are such a child,’ John tuts, picking up a box of baubles, also plastic and I twitches at the sight of them. All brightly coloured and giving off a lux value that is far too high to look pleasant. At least they are a minor improvement upon last year’s which I promptly passed on to a thrift store, along with the string lights, after the festive season had ended.

But I bite down on my hate of the baubles and decide instead to pick at John. Namely the thing on his head. ‘Says the man wearing the Santa hat. And why are you wearing it anyway? John, they are for young children and enthusiastic old people.’

‘There were plenty of people wearing them when I went shopping,’ John argues, slightly sing song as he hangs the decorations.

I huff. ‘Speaking of shopping what do you want?’

‘What?’

‘For Christmas. What do you want?’

John sounds bemused. ‘I don’t want anything.’

I stop typing. John notices, a fact made obvious by his peering around the tree again, that and the quizzical look on his face. ‘Of course I need to get you something,’ I point out.

‘No you don’t.’ he retorts without a second’

‘You bought me something. Why can’t I return the sentiment?’

John just gapes for a moment, closes his mouth and then opens it again. ‘I was going to ask how you knew that but I know it’s a stupid question. Nevermind.’

I ignore this.

‘Once you carried that monstrosity in, you went back downstairs and collected the other three bags. You then ducked into your room upstairs and came back down with only two bags. Obviously, I know what ever is in the third bag is something you don’t want me to see and given the time of year…’I trails off, having made my point.

John snuffles a soft laugh. ‘You can’t blame me for trying,’ he breathes and turns his attention back to the tree. In minutes, he’s humming again.

I still don’t know what john wants, I think and it nags at me incessantly for the next few minutes which feel like an age in the quiet.

I could just not get him anything, he considers, it is what he had asked for, _technically._ But that isn’t fair on John at all. 

‘You avoided my question,’ I blurt, after John has just finished rummaging through one of the bags and pulled out a box of multi-coloured fairy lights.

‘Sorry?’ John is in tableau; back bent, forehead creased and eyebrows knitted together.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I repeat, ‘what do you want for Christmas? I know you want something. That much is clear. Is it expensive or something? If that’s the case, money isn’t a problem.’

John moves almost jointed as some switch is flicked by my words as he is pulled out of his freeze, putting the light box on the table and sits down across from me. He looks far away and deep in thought.

‘You’re right as usual, I do want something. But I can’t have it because I can only put up with so much of everyone else being right, especially since I started living with you.’

So that’s a no on the expensive then.

‘That doesn’t help at all,’ I admonish, shutting my …no…John’s laptop and I am momentarily amazed that he hadn’t pick me up on it.

John sighs. ‘Get me socks. I need some new pairs of socks.’ He stands up, pulls the hat off his head, lightly dumps it on mine and goes back to stringing the lights. I however, snatch the red with white trimmed thing off my head and leave it on the table as I stand and wander into the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate because it’s Christmas and it’s not Christmas without hot chocolate.

I make a mug each for both of us.

~*~*~*~

Lestrade is shaking his head. ‘I’ve told you, Sherlock, via text, over the phone and now, there are no cases.’

I huff. ‘Can’t I have a cold case? I know you have a box of them just sitting in your office. Something. I need something,’ I plead.

‘Go present shopping,’ Lestrade suggests, stapling another link of the paper chain to the wall. Clunk. ‘What are you getting for John?'

‘Oh yes, that will keep me occupied by letting my brain rot,’ I snipe, and the bite in the words is interesting and I realize it hasn't peppered my interactions as of late.

‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade warns, his hands coming up to his hips and fixing me with a look.

‘I have no clue what to buy for John.’

‘Make something,’ The DI suggests.

‘Like what?’

‘Sherlock,’ he turns, ‘Do I look like Google to you?’

‘Your sarcasm is greatly appreciated.’

‘Well to be quite honest it’s kind of nice to throw it back in your face,’ Lestrade tuts. Clunk.

I huff. ‘What do I buy for John?’ I insist.

Lestrade sighs. ‘Why can’t you just, I dunno, do what every other human does and asks?’

‘Dead end. He says he wants socks.’

‘Really?’

I roll my eyes. ‘There was this bit about wanting something but if he got it everyone would be right which makes no sense and I said so and he just said get me socks.’

Lestrade laughs. ‘How is it possible for you to be the smartest person in this room and yet be as thick as pea soup?’

I ignore him.

‘Can I at the very least have one cold case file?’

‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘No. No means no, Sherlock. Go shopping or go home or something. That or help. I’ve got this entire department and three others to decorate by six,’ Lestrade waves his right hand, staple gun and all in a wide vertical circle, before pushing another link to the wall. Clunk. ‘Donovan, Anderson, hurry up with the chain will you!’ He barks.

The so called forensics investigator and sergeant look up momentarily to glare at their boss for a second before turning the laser gaze to me. I ignore them pointedly and leave, but not without proclaiming very loudly that their nativity scene in the foyer is inaccurate, as there were no donkeys or any other animal at Jesus’ birth.

~*~*~*~

‘Um…a book?’ Molly offers.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what he’s already read. Are there any fresh ones?’

‘I’m sorry, Sherlock, but the morgue is closed unless there is an emergency.’ Molly offers me a meek smile. ‘Did you want to go for coffee? Talk about this present thing? I could come with you if you wanted. Shopping I mean.’

My mouth stretches to the point that it hurts and if John were here he would probably punch me. ‘No thank you, Molly. I am rather busy at the moment.’

‘Then why are you he-‘

But I’m already out the door, yelling something about the wreath.

~*~*~*~

I’ve counted the cracks in the lounge’s ceiling ten times because that is how bored I am. I am tempted to calculate the number of assorted decorations and lights the tree has, along with how many branches or even the number of individual snowflakes falling past the windows, which, I will admit, is a little silly, but at the moment, I don’t care.

Apparently, Christmas means that doctor’s get no real time off so John is at work and I am on the settee and silently cursing the lack of festively themed murders that aren’t happening and I still have no clue what so ever to buy or make or anything to give as a gift to my best friend.

I glare at the ceiling. It stares back impassively, judging me for directing my frustration toward it.

I could sleep or at the very least take a nap as John isn’t here and can’t take a photo on his phone and then send it on to Lestrade who then “accidently” forwards it to the rest of his department who then purposely forward it to the rest of the known universe and my jaw clicks at remembering what embarrassment is and how it feels.

In the end, I do nod off, arm flopping off the side of the seat, the other nestled under his head, soft carolling families singing late on some far off and old Christmas eve night breathing like a lullaby.

~*~*~*~

It’s sweet and rich and nearby.

I open my eyes which focus after a second upon my mug filled with the source of the smell along with a couple marshmallows; two white, one pink.

A shape is in front of the tree and it turns out to be John who is smiling at him from his chair at the table.

‘Welcome back, Aurora.’

I narrow his reasonably bleary eyes at my friend and the reference, if it is one, I’m not too sure. ‘What?’

John rolls his eyes. ‘Never mind. Sleep well?’

I move to sitting and rubs at my eyes, blink a few times and then, reflexively, I reach for the mug and drink half of it, ignoring how it nearly scalds my tongue as he does so. 

I looks up at John after scowling at the mug. ‘You made this wrong.’ I raise the now half empty mug.

‘How?’ John’s tone is incredulous.

‘You dissolved the cocoa powder in hot water then added the milk. You’re supposed to dissolve the powder in the milk. No water enters into it.’

John just laughs. ‘Are you actually being serious right now, Sherlock?’

‘John, in all the time we’ve known each other, name once where I have been joking.’

John is still astounded. ‘You are so…there is yet to be a word to properly describe you, Sherlock,’ he huffs.

‘Well I’m sorry I like things done in the traditional way.’

‘Which makes no sense, Sherlock, as you are the least traditional person I have ever met!’

I train my gaze out the window, watching the white dust down.

‘What’s going on, Sherlock?’

‘Going on with what?’ I snap at John for the first time in a long time, eyes refocusing on the man in question.  
‘With this tradition thing. Wanting a real tree, the nativity thing at Scotland Yard, the wreath at the morgue. Molly and Lestrade texted me. This thing about “proper” hot chocolate,’ he waves a hand, ‘What’s going on?’

I sigh, remembering so many proper Christmases where it was almost perfect, the minor tarnish being one slightly promiscuous cousin named Arden and the ever present existence of Mycroft, taunting him about his height and anything else. ‘What is the point of doing something if people don’t do it right?’

‘What is right?’ John asks and it leaves me a little stumped for a second, almost unsure how to answer.

‘A real tree for one.’

John narrows his eye and cocks his head to the side. ‘Are you trying to relive your childhood or something?’

I shrug. ‘I guess it could be interpreted as such.’

‘Huh.’

John gets up and walks to the kitchen, grabbing my mug as he passes.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, a little lamely.

‘Making tea for me and hot chocolate for you, Mr Autistic I want a traditional Christmas,’ John calls over the sink thundering water into the kettle.

~*~*~*~

Mrs Hudson brings up almost a tray sized plate of shortbread around eight, while I am wrapped up in my robe, forcing myself to watch some Christmas special of some odd American show called Paranormal or something with two men tied to chairs and a normal looking apple pie couple that are actually gods pulling out fingernails and saying magic words.

‘Yoohoo,’ she calls, ‘Sherlock? John? I made you some biscuits.’

I turn to see John smile fondly at her as she puts the tray down on the kitchen table. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson, they smell amazing. Or at least better than Sherlock’s experiment with candy canes and acid.’ He gets up, walks over and plucks a tree shape from the plate, biting off the top half. ‘Wow. Definitely better than candy canes and acid.’

I huff. You’re not meant to eat it, I think bitterly.

My friend and my land lady start mumbling and whispering animatedly and I strains to hear from my chair, hating not being in on the joke that makes both of them break into peals of giggling and hating maybe even more intently that it annoys me.

After a minute or two, the hysterics subside. Mrs Hudson asks, ‘What are you two doing for Christmas?’ 

‘I was thinking we could have everyone over like last year,’ John answers, ‘Lestrade and Molly, maybe even Anderson.’

I groan at this, ducking my face into my hands. ‘Please tell me you are saying that to annoy me and you’re not being serious.’

John chuckles, wanders over and pats me on the shoulder. ‘Kidding,’ he affirms before going back to his laptop.

I turn my attention back to the screen where the two are pulling apart the couples tree and stalking the house for them.

Mrs Hudson slips away back down stairs without another word.

We sit in silence, peppered with clicks and tacks from John’s laptop, for maybe half an hour after the episode finishes. I curl my feet underneath me and go to staring at the wallpaper; flocked and worn and dirty, but still interesting enough.

John closes his laptop. ‘Did you want to talk about it?’

I don’t look at him. ‘Talk about what?’ 

‘Your childhood, Sherlock. Explain to me why this traditional Christmas is so important to you.’

‘Why should I?’

John groans. ‘Why are you being so difficult?’

‘I’m not being difficult, I just don’t see why it would help you.’ I respond, turning my head to look at him and I can’t think of a better way to describe his expression other than done, I just want you to talk to me, tell me about Christmas.’

I hum for a moment. ‘Christmas? There was the one before I was sent to boarding school.’ I can’t help but smile.

‘What happened?’

‘My first case.’

John is startled. ‘A murder? You investigated a murder when you were, what? Ten?!’

I huff. ‘No, John. T’was the case of the missing Christmas pudding.’

John laughs. ‘Really?’

‘What is funny?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ He waves a hand, getting out of his seat and putting the kettle on to boil.

‘I’m going to call Harry tomorrow,’ John calls. ‘Invite her over for Christmas. That OK?’ He’s standing in the doorway.

I don’t respond other than nodding.

‘You OK?’

‘Fine,’ I say. I don’t look at him, I just keep my gaze trained on the wallpaper.

I jump out of my seat like there is a broken spring and John is startled by the movement. 

‘What’s going on?’ he asks with wide eyes.

‘I need to speak with Mrs Hudson.’ I make a move toward the door and like a moth to a flame, John follows, reorientating himself to me and it’s odd I’ve never actually noticed that before. Now looking back upon John’s general behaviour, it’s a regular occurrence. 

And it appears it a trait he as assimilated from me.

I shake my head. ‘Alone, John, I need to speak with her alone.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘What’s this about, Sherlock?’

‘Nothing,’ I try a smile but it’s so forced that I know that John knows it an act and a lie and a façade. ‘I just need to have a word with her about the rent.’

John doesn’t like it but he makes no move to stop me as I make my way down the stairs and I rap on her door.

~*~*~*~

This is worse, I decide. 

John has wandered off, saying something about needing to find Harry a present now that she is coming around along with something for Lestrade and Molly and anyone else he has invited without telling me.  
I just let him get swallowed up by the crowd and I am now stuck in the middle of it and I still have no clue what to give John.

This is probably the worst place to think this over but then again I can actually see my options rather than just making things up and then going out and seeing that they don’t have whatever it was/is that I was thinking of then having to go the next best thing which is always a terrible replacement.

I start walking because I’ve been bumped enough times already and I don’t like it.

I could get him a jumper or a new phone or a gift voucher or just money but…No. I can’t cop out and do that. 

‘Fuck.’

It say it quite loud because I am sick of having to contain all of this frustration and a mother with her daughter gives me a glare but shuffles on.

I’m tempted to just text John, saying I’ll meet him back home but then I breath out, the leaves in the exhale.

Finding a park bench and sitting down, I do send John a text.

_Sitting on bench near where you left me. Please be quick. Can only deduce so many life stories before I lose the will to live – SH_

I know John is rolling his eyes and I smile into the now lightly falling snow at the thought.

~*~*~*~

Harry arrives the next day and demands to see me so she can punch me in the face for dragging her brother into the next best hell on Earth. 

I said Hello.

Harriet Watson calmed down considerably when John’s room was delegated to her and that John would sleep in mine seeing as I never did and she had a cup of Irish coffee minus the Irish in her hand.

John then had to dash off to work, calling at both of us while he was shrugging on his jacket to play nice and to share and not to rip each other’s head off.

Harry just looked at me with raised eye brows and her lips pressed into a line. ‘What? What you looking at?’

‘I’m just marvelling that you and your brother share no resemblance what so ever.’

‘What the bloody hell does that mean, cheekbones?’ she flips her auburn hair off her shoulder and sits up.

I am at a loss. Because she really does look nothing like John other than their both being strong looking. 

‘Well?’

I sigh. ‘What answer can I give you that won’t offend you?’

Harry huffs. ‘So you got a case at the moment?’

I’m starting to think that John explicitly explained my apparent lack of social skills to his sister so she could act accordingly. 

‘No.’

‘Any nutso experiments?’

‘No.’

‘Well unless you two are shagging every minute-‘

‘We’re not shagging.’

‘Has John been lying to me then?’

‘What?’ Did John tell her we were sleeping together? 

‘He said you’re all interesting. Infuriating as well and I can see that clearly, but not interesting.’

Oh.

Nonetheless, her commentary didn’t sit well. 

‘If I am not interesting, how an I tell that you haven’t slept at all this past week, you’re done moping about Clara and you hate present wrapping.’

Harry stares at me, wide eyed. ‘Piss off. John told you.’

‘No, your eyes and your hands told me.’

‘Bollocks.’

I smirk. ‘Observation. Your eyes are haggard, but you have made an effort to cover it up. You may want to invest in buying a concealer for your skin tone. But why were you tired? Clubbing. Obviously not drinking, no, if you did, John would find out somehow and you don’t want to go there. He did invade Afghanistan after all. But I digress. As I understand it, drinking is all part of clubbing so you weren’t there to just drink or dance, no, you wanted to meet someone. Her nails are painted carefully, your make up is neat and you smell of perfume, you’re trying to keep yourself and it can’t be for us, A, because John is your brother and, B, we are both male, it’s probably become a habit.’

She purses her lips. ‘What about the present wrapping?’

‘Your hands and fingers, the pads and palms have a litany of small cuts on them. You keep fidgeting and there are no bandaids so they’re not deep enough to draw blood but so much so that they are annoying. Paper cuts. But some of them are jagged, so you cut yourself on the edge of the tape dispenser.’

Harry sighs. ‘Whatever. What’s on for tea?’

~*~*~*~  
John wanted to go out so naturally, I insisted Angelo’s because while it wasn’t a factor for me so much as them, the meals were free but John didn’t want to spend the first evening he’s had in a long while with his sister, insisting he’s not my date.

In the end, Harry chose some high end place she’d gone for a birthday dinner, not her own she affirmed.

It was all fine, the food, the light chatter and sibling banter I am slightly jealous of not possessing (technically, I do, but it isn’t as faint hearted as Harry and John so the envy is reasoned somewhat) until John excuses himself to use the loo.

Ever since Harry had slipped her brightly wrapped parcel underneath the plastic monster John insisted on calling a tree, I had wanted to ask her about what I should buy for John. Christmas Day was two days away and I still had nothing to give him and no clue where to start.

The words stumbled down my tongue before I had any time to think about or even process them.

‘What did you get for John?’

Harry puts down her glass of lemon, lime and bitters. She shrugs. ‘Just some mug I found online. It says keep calm and carry on on one side and the other says panic and freak out. What about you? What did you get him?’

I look sheepish. ‘Nothing yet. I don’t know what to get him.’

‘Have you asked?’

‘He said socks.’

Harry smiles fondly. ‘He always says socks. It’s what dad always asked for. He was the no nonsense sort I guess.’

‘Yes, that’s all lovely, but what do I get for John?’ I press.

Harry huffs and rolls her eyes. ‘Have you considered kissing him? Or shagging him? Or, shock horror, maybe both?’

A few other people from the tables around us look at the elder Watson with disdain but she doesn't see them.

‘John made it very clear to me the first night we met he wasn't looking for a relationship. At least not with me.’

‘Do I detect a note of disappointment?’ she smirks and it is now that John returns to the table.

‘What are we talking about?’ he asks, slipping into his chair and looking between us.

Thankfully, a waitress comes by asking if we wanted desert before any discernible blush and heat spreads under my skin or Harry can make some comment.

~*~*~*~

It’s completely unfair that John has to work on Christmas Eve.

It is also complete unfair that I have to help in entertaining Harry who is heart set on making a pudding.

After snatching my laptop from out from in front of me, which I almost want to laugh at because John is prone to doing the same, to search for a recipe.

Of course, if I had pointed her in the direction of Mr Hudson when she’d asked if I had any clue how to make a pudding, (I don’t) I wouldn’t have had to deal with my property being taken.

And after ransacking our kitchen, and substituting dried fruit for chocolate and then having to find a new recipe, I am stirring pudding mix I don’t actually have any intention of eating.

‘So have you considered what I said?’ Harry asks, motioning for me to pass over the bowl.

My eye brows raise. ‘What? That I should kiss and slash or shag my best friend? No I haven’t because it is ludicrous idea.’

Harry grins. ‘So you have considered it.’

I sigh. ‘The reason I am disregarding is because as John has insisted on many an occasion, he is not gay.’

Harry looks affronted. ‘You don’t have to be gay to fancy someone who just so happens to be the same gender as you.’

‘I odn’t understand.’

Harry huffs, putting down the bowl on the table, and leaning against it. ‘You know what? John has been lying to me this entire time. He keep on saying how great and clever and brilliant you are but you know what I think? No, what I know? That you are an idiot. A big idiot who may be able to know everything about anyone with a look, you can’t see the fucking bleeding obvious.’

‘Which is?’

‘Oh my God! Are you actually fucking serious? John loves you. He is so fucking in love with you ad you can’t see it for the life of you. A blind man could see it!’ 

The words are like a punch to the temple.

It makes sense of course, all of it, it fits and I know that it is true, very much so, even mutual.

But 

I don’t even know what I’m getting stuck on.

‘You OK there?’ 

Harry’s voice shatters my resolve and I start searching for my coat.

‘Where are you going?’ Harry calls after me.

‘Buying John’s present!’

~*~*~*~

The buzzer goes off and John outs down his glass of wine and takes a step toward the door, I grab his forearm.

‘Yeah?’

‘John, could we do our presents when everyone’s gone home?’

His eyes narrow for the briefest of moments but then he just breathes out and nods. ‘Yeah, sure, Sherlock. Whatever you want.’ He smiles and I let go of his arm.

Harry is just smirking from the kitchen, holding her glass of eggnog, (no brandy) but I don’t notice as I dash across to my room, retrieving the wrapped package and slipping it under the tree before John returns with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

~*~*~*~  
Harry is still bleary when she clambers into a cab, whose driver is grumbling for having to work on Christmas Day, but Harry promised John and her mother that she would be there for Christmas this year.

‘I like her,’ I tell John, almost as a confession as we slip out of the chill into 221B.

He smiles. ‘I’m glad. No really, I am, because if you two didn’t like each other well…I don’t know, just, I’m happy you get along.’

‘Can we do presents?’ I asks and John’s smile grows into a grin.

‘Have I ever told you you are about five years old if you ignore the vocabulary and like of bloody murders and psychopaths?’

Ignoring him I turn our seats to face the Christmas tree and then sit cross legged in mine, almost bouncing.

John is laughing silently as he passes over a wrapped rectangular prisim with an elf sticker that reads **TO: Sherlock FROM: John.**.

‘You first,’ he nods.

The wrapping is gone in a blink and you’re miss it second. As the paper falls away, I hold in my hands a book. On bee keeping. John has given me a book on bee keeping.

I smile, look up at John and raise an eyebrow. ‘Bees?’

John shrugs. ‘We all need a hobby.’

‘You’ve been talking to Mycroft haven’t you?’

He sighs but he is smiling. ‘He may have mentioned your odd habits.’

‘I was ten years old, John. It has been years since I’ve even watched bees.’

‘Well you can start again.’

There is a minute of comfortable silence.

‘What did you get me?’ John asks,’ reaching down for the only present left under the tree. He palms it for a minute and make a face. ‘If this is lungs or a liver or something I will kill you,’ he hisses, pulling the tape of the edges with more finesse than I had.

He pulled up from the shoulders a periwinkle blue knit jumper and after turning it around I can see the reindeer and snow flake design I had picked it out for.

John is laughing. ‘Oh God, this is hideous. Why on God's Earth did you get me Christmas jumper, Sherlock?'

It's no different to any of the others you own,' I answer and he swats at me.

'I'm ignoring your comments because it is Chirstmas so go and play your violin,' he makes a face before pulling on the jumper and he sits there, looking very pleased with himself.

‘There more.’

John's eyes widen and he looks down, putting down the jumper over the arm of his chair and picks up the slip of paper I had written the moment I’d gotten home from shopping for the jumper.

I love you too.

John sort of freezes and his eyes dart to me and then the note and back to me.

‘How-‘ he cuts off. ‘If you deduced this –‘

But he stops when I shake my head. ‘Apparently there are some things even I am blind to.’

John laughs, ‘Heaven forbid. But seriously, Sherlock. How-‘

‘Harry told me.’

He cocks his head. ‘I never told her.’

‘She deduced it.’

John doesn’t say anything. He just smiles and it is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

‘John, can I kiss you?’ the words don’t fit the moment and I want to punch myself in the face for letting them just tumble out.

John’s smile gets a flicker larger. He takes in a breath. ‘I was so sure I would never hear those words.’

‘Can I?’

‘Yes you big idiot.’

I stand up way to quickly and stumble forward like a new born fawn but the general upshot has our mouths knocking together a little clumsily until I tilt a little and John takes hold of my face, thumb stoking along one cheek bone.

‘Merry Christmas, Sherlock,’ he breathes when we pause for air.

I let myself stop kissing John only long enough to say, ‘Merry Christmas, John,’ before the kissing resumes.

And while it isn’t under mistletoe and isn’t all too traditional, right now, I couldn’t really give a toss.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if it wasn't already obvious, Harry Watson looks a lot like Catherine Tate.


End file.
